The Beginning and the End
by kalinnnnn
Summary: An accident changes Malcolm's life forever. But is this a new beginning, or an end to everything?
1. Chapter 1: The Accident

The life of the most unfortunate, and yet the happiest of the brothers of this family started with a beginning that predates time itself: birth.

Thus one can say this is an old beginning; a familiar, extremely ordinary beginning. Such an unremarkable appearance into this world wouldn't even be worth mentioning, and would've remained unmentioned if it wasn't for the birth certificate, kept somewhere in a damp basement in City Hall, with the ordinary and quite common name 'Malcolm Wilkerson' written in big, bold letters on top of it.

His life continued the same way the life of an average boy would; he had friends (although not so many), he went to school, he was discovered to be a genius (which made his life even harder), and finally, he went to college.

All in all, an ordinary life indeed.

But an extraordinary person.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Twenty-six years after the beginning, a sudden sound broke the silence of Malcolm's apartment.

_Ding-dong._

That's the doorbell, he thought. As if pointing that fact out to himself would help his stiff and sleep-laden limbs to move. As if it would stop the incessant irritating noise that was piercing his ears and his sleepy, numb mind.

As if it would make the person he knew he was going to see behind the door go away.

Finally he realised he couldn't just ignore it. So he got up, a heavy and tiresome process, and walked slowly to the door. He felt as if his head had been stuffed with cotton.

He unlocked the door and opened it and his worst suspicions were confirmed.

It was Dewey and Reese, his _brothers_.

"Hey." Dewey smiled, but Malcolm could clearly see that this cost him a lot of effort. Reese just stood by his side, shifting nervously and drilling holes into Malcolm's head with his eyes. Malcolm decided to ignore him and instead focused his attention on Dewey.

God it's been months since I last saw him. He's changed a lot. He looks a lot older now.

We all do.

In fact, he hadn't talked to his brothers since the time they had had that terrible row. Malcolm wasn't even sure what they had fought about; all he knew was that neither of them had backed down and they'd kept going until they couldn't look at each other any more.

"Hello," Malcolm said in an indifferent tone, not bothering to smile back. Dewey was rather taken aback by such an icy welcome, but said nothing. The smile disappeared from his face, though.

"Aren't you going to let us in?" Dewey asked, now more coldly. Malcolm made a gesture in a who-cares-anyway sort of way and opened the door wider. Then he turned his back to his brothers and headed to the sofa in the living room, without waiting for them to come in.

He slumped on the cushions that already had Malcolm-shaped dents in them and looked at his brothers with a look of dull curiosity. He already knew why they had come, even before any of them said anything.

They both came in after him and stood in the middle of the living room, not sitting down on the armchairs behind them and carefully avoiding looking at Malcolm.

"So... This is a nice place."

Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Is that all you came to say?"

Now Dewey's mask of calmness fell and he turned to Malcolm suddenly, anger flickering in his eyes.

"Why are you acting like that?"

Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. "Like what?"

"Like you're all mighty and superior. Like you have nothing to say to us."

Malcolm sighed, looking irritated. He looked like the epitome of indifference.

But on the inside he was being torn apart by the memory of their last meeting—what they had said, and what had remained unspoken but they both knew what it was. He hated Dewey for coming here and for making things so complicated when they could've simply left that behind them and gone on with their lives, minding their own business. It would've been simpler that way. But no, Dewey had to come here and twist the knife in the wound. Malcolm felt anger rising in him, suffocating the guilt he had initially felt. He welcomed that anger, glad to distract himself from the uncomfortable feelings of shame and embarrassment.

"Why are _you_ acting as if we have something to say to each other?" he retorted. "As far as I remember, we said everything we had to say to each other during our last conversation."

Reese clenched his hands into fists and his jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Malcolm knew he wouldn't take a swing at him, not here and now. It might not look like it, but sometimes Reese was the biggest coward of the three.

Dewey stared at him, as if unwilling to believe Malcolm had just said those words. Malcolm blinked and averted his eyes, because he couldn't bring himself to meet his brother's gaze. He seemed really hurt.

"I thought you'd understand," Dewey said, the anger now gone from his voice. "Mom sent us here to make amends, not to fight."

Malcolm couldn't stop his next outburst, and part of him despised him for that.

"No, I _don't _understand. You're always hiding behind Mom, even now! God, Dewey, you're a grown man! You're the same coward as you've always been!"

Dewey narrowed his eyes and bit his lip. His outburst was as sudden as Malcolm's.

"No, you want to know who's really the coward? You! You're always hiding from everybody and everything! You're afraid of what happened to Dad! You're afraid to face what you feel, so you shout at others!"

He was panting heavily, as if he'd been running.

Malcolm sat, unmoving, staring somewhere in space, not wanting to show how deep these words had cut. For a while there was silence that none of them wanted to break, because they both thought they'd gone too far once more. Now Malcolm couldn't help the stinging feeling of shame, of regret. He felt like he had let his brothers down because of what he was, and what he wasn't, and what they expected him to be.

"I think you should go," he croaked, his mouth suddenly gone dry.

"You won't even look at us?" Dewey shouted. "You _are _a coward! You can't even face your own family!"

Malcolm was still silent, as if frozen. He looked like a statue, his face pale, his eyes still fixed on the same spot in space, not even blinking. "Go!" he repeated, and this time it sounded more like a plea than anything else. Dewey's mouth was open mid-word, but he shut it and clenched his jaw. There was something in Malcolm's voice that subsided his rage.

His shoulder slumped and he put his hands in his pocket. Once more, they had said things neither of them wanted to. Once more, they left so many unspoken things between them.

"Come on, Reese," he said and headed for the door.

Reese followed him, after throwing one last glance at the frozen figure of Malcolm.

The door banged shut. After a while, the sound of his brother's footsteps died off and there was silence again.

That silence had been his companion for... how long? Six months? Ten years? His entire life?

It sure felt like it.

He was fighting with his brothers because of what had happened after their dad's funeral. His brothers had wanted to talk about it, to share their best memories of him—they knew this was the only way they'd get through it.

But Malcolm couldn't. He couldn't bring himself to talk to them. It hurt too much, and the only thing he knew how to do with feelings like that was to hide from them. He had been like that his entire life, but it was just then that his brothers saw—or let themselves see—what he really was. And they were horrified, and they rejected him; and he rejected them, and there had been a terrible row... a row that neither of them knew how to stop.

Malcolm was supposed to be smarter than that, he knew. But, as it turned out, he wasn't.

He wanted to scream. He couldn't stand the silence any more; he never could, but he didn't know how to get rid of it.

He wanted to scream, but his throat was tight and dry and he didn't seem to be able to part his lips. And he wouldn't have done it anyway. It was too animalistic, too unbridled, and that wasn't Malcolm. Malcolm was perfect self-composure, not saying a word out of place. Malcolm was hardly showing any emotion at all. Malcolm was...

...Stupid? Self-centered? Cold? Distant?

No. No, he wasn't. He shook his head, as if a physical expression of denial would help him believe that more easily. He wasn't, and he'd never been that.

Then why did you drive your brothers out of the house?

Malcolm finally shifted, breaking that trance-like state he had been in for the past half an hour. He couldn't stand the empty apartment any more, so he got up. He was going for a walk.

It was cold outside, so he grabbed a jacket on his way out. His body was stiff from sitting in one place for so long, and he thought vaguely that he was going to regret it later, when he got home, because by then his whole body would be aching from the cold. But it didn't matter. He couldn't stay here any more.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Dewey felt awful the moment he stepped out of Malcolm's apartment. The anger was gone now, replaced by anguish and guilt. He shouldn't have said those words. How long was this new silence between them going to last? Another six months? Possibly even years? Knowing how stubborn Malcolm was, this wasn't exactly impossible. Oh, why had he opened his stupid mouth? Why did he ruin everything?

Since they had left the apartment, he and Reese hadn't said a word. He didn't know what his brother was thinking right now; Reese's emotionless expression didn't tell him anything, and he didn't know how to ask.

Oh great, their family was falling apart.

Now he couldn't even talk to Reese. What was wrong with him? No, what was wrong with _them_? Now that he thought about it, they had never talked to each other, not like that. They didn't share what was on their minds, what was bothering them. Maybe they just weren't that kind of family.

But then again, what other kinds of families were there? Wasn't that what the family was all about?

Perhaps he should go back and apologise properly this time. He didn't want to leave thing like that.

They were already a few blocks away, but there was still time. He grabbed Reese's hand and lead him back in the direction from which they came. Reese was just about to ask where they were going, when they saw Malcolm coming straight at them, walking fast, his eyes fixed on the ground. Dewey waved with his free hand and shouted, "Malcolm!"

Malcolm looked up, saw Dewey and Reese, turned around and started walking even faster. He was practically running now, trying to avoid them, but Dewey didn't give up that easily.

"Malcolm, wait!" he shouted. He started running too, pulling Reese after him. But then he caught sight of something to the left of Malcolm, just as his brother was about to cross the street in an attempt to put more distance between them. Dewey stopped dead in his tracks, frozen with terror, and all he could manage was a scream, "Malcolm! NO!"

And then there was the sound of a horn, the screeching of brakes, a quiet 'thump', a louder crash of broken glass, and silence. For a moment, that seemed to Dewey to have lasted hours, there was silence.

Then some people started shouting.


	2. Chapter 2: Awakening

A/N: I probably should've mentioned this earlier, but English is not my native language. So if you find mistakes or awkward expressions, please correct me.

* * *

Chapter 2

But then again, his birth wasn't so ordinary.

For one, it happened on the front lawn. Rarely does one see a mother giving birth just outside her own house, surrounded by a group of paramedics and curious onlookers (most of who later regretted their curiosity; seeing a baby being born is not a sight for the faint-hearted, or the people who hate blood).

And there had been complications—the baby had been reluctant to leave his mother's womb.

Luckily, it had been nothing serious; and soon a new pair of lungs filled the block with screaming. Screaming that indicated the appearance of a new life.

Screaming that showed the sadness of being born—of leaving everything comfortable and familiar behind you and plunging into a new world, full of uncertainty and unhappiness.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Despite the time that had passed since then, the grown-up Malcolm was still reluctant to open his eyes.

He loved that moment just after waking up: when you left a world of things out of your control and just before you realise you're in another world of things out of your control. It was a sweet moment of warm darkness that embraced him, a moment of having no problems, no worries, no dreams; a moment of peace. He lay in bed like this for a while, until his memories of the previous day suddenly fell back into place. Then he had no choice but to wake up again, this time for real.

Wait, wasn't there a... car? And Dewey shouting at him? And then the car had hit him, and then there was pain and darkness. He remembered everything now; he remembered the row with his brothers, and the things they had said...

But now, to the more important question of his current whereabouts. Now that he was fully awake, he could hear a faint 'beep-beep' noise in the background, as if from a machine of sorts. And the sheets he was lying in didn't smell of home—they smelled of disinfectant and medicine. So he was at the hospital.

Having established all that, and unable to put off this moment any longer, he opened his eyes.

Or at least tried to.

His eyelids felt like they were glued to each other. He tried feeling them with his fingers, but there was a bandage covering them.

Why was there a bandage over his eyes? What's going on?

He was already panicking. He tried tearing the bandage off, but he couldn't; it was too tight. Then he started frantically feeling his covers, trying to flung them off and sit up. But they were tucked in really tight and he got entangled in them. When he finally managed to sit up, he tried getting out of the bed; and then, suddenly, his head split open from the pain.

He fell back, clutching his head with his two hands. He tried calling for help, but all he could manage was a desperate croak that he wasn't sure anyone had heard.

Just then he heard the door of what he supposed was his room open and there were footsteps of a man, coming closer to his bed. He turned his head in the direction of the noises, hoping to make out a least a shadow through the bandages. But there was nothing; only darkness.

He heard the man say, "Hey! He's awake!" and immediately knew who it was. He forgot he was angry at him, he forgot everything they had both said; now he was just a familiar voice in that dreadful night surrounding him.

"Dewey!" Malcolm said. "What's... what's going on?"

"Hey, calm down, calm down." He sensed Dewey grabbing his hand. "You shouldn't be moving, not yet."

Then the door opened again and he heard more footsteps.

"Oh, thank God!" That was his mother. By the sound of it, she had been crying.

"Malcolm, are you okay?" Reese said. Malcolm tried getting up once more, but the pulsating pain in his head got stronger and he gave up trying to move any more.

"Yeah, no... I don't know... What's going on? Why are my eyes covered?"

There was a moment of silence and he imagined the three of them sharing a look. This didn't make him feel any better.

"What's going on?" he repeated, panic sneaking into his voice.

"Oh honey, the doctor warned us about this... The accident was... well, it was really serious and awful and..."

Malcolm lay unmoving, listening to the faltering voice of his mother. His mind was numb; he couldn't understand what she was saying. The words washed over him, and he couldn't hear anything but the ringing in his ears.

"...and well, you might not... you might not..." At this point her fragile self-control broke down and she grabbed his hand, sobbing quietly.

But his body was frozen; his mind was frozen. He couldn't move, he couldn't speak.

And there was only the darkness.

"How long?" he said at last in a flat tone.

"What?" Dewey said, puzzled.

"How long will it be till I can see again?"

Both his brothers took in a sharp breath and he already knew what they were going to say. He shook his head and started panting heavily, taking in short, hollow breaths. He sounded as if he was asthmatic.

"Possibly never."

This couldn't be happening.

This wasn't happening.

No.

"No!"

It took him a while to understand that he had shouted that last word out loud. Nobody said anything; the only sound in the room was the sobbing of his mother.

Then Dewey started hesitatingly, "Malcolm, we know you are—"

"Leave me," he whispered.

Reese opened his mouth to protest. "But—"

"Leave me," Malcolm repeated in the same voice. "I want to be alone."

And so they left. He heard the door click as they closed it behind them.

Then there was silence.

Malcolm sunk deeper into his sheets, hoping against hope that he would go to sleep and forget all that; or better still, realise it had all been a dream. Nothing but a stupid bad dream...

Suddenly he felt tired, exhausted, spent. And despite the pain, despite the shock and the panic and the fear he drifted away, slowly falling asleep.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

The doctor shook his head. "No."

Dewey was beginning to hate that word. It seemed that no matter what he asked, he received the same response: "No, I'm sorry", "I can't tell", "I don't know". What did those doctors know, anyway?

He went back to the bench and threw himself onto it, sighing and putting his hands in his pockets. The doctors were treating him as if he was a child, not a grown man; indeed, there was something about Dewey himself, probably because of his name, that left the impression in others that they were talking to a little boy. That was probably why every time he asked if his brother was going to be okay, he was given a vague, meaningless reply, as if they were afraid he couldn't handle the truth. He wanted to shout at them, make them understand he was not a kid any more; but he knew this would accomplish nothing.

He hated sitting like that, doing nothing, just waiting for something to happen. The doctors had advised them to go home and rest, but that would be even worse; at least here he felt a little bit involved in what was going on. He hated everything about that hospital, but he couldn't leave Malcolm alone.

And he couldn't help but feel guilty about what had happened—Malcolm wouldn't have been run over by that car if he hadn't chased him.

Now Malcolm had another reason to hate him. Great.

And judging by his reaction when he woke up, he did. Great.

Dewey buried his face in his palms.

"Hey," he heard Reese say. His brother sat next to him.

Dewey didn't answer.

"Are you okay?" Reese asked.

"Yeah," he said eventually, although this wasn't the truth and Reese knew it.

He could feel his brother staring at him.

"Mom called Francis and Piama a while ago," Reese continued, just so they didn't have to sit in that awkward silence. "They said they're coming as soon as they can."

Dewey was still unresponsive. Reese was still staring at him.

It was strange how many things he had learned about his family in just one day. But all those were things he would've preferred not to have learned, things he shouldn't have known. He shouldn't know what his mother wailing in despair sounded like. He shouldn't know what a broken, silent Reese looked like. He shouldn't know what a tired, guilt-ridden him felt like.

He shouldn't know so many things. And yet he did.

"It's not your fault, you know," Reese said at last.

Dewey hated him for seeing right through him.

He forced himself to smile, in spite of how tired he was. "I never thought it was," he said.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

"Here you go," Dewey said in an unnecessarily cheerful tone. He lead Malcolm in.

It was three days later and they were back at their place—the place where they had grown up. Their mother had insisted on them moving in for a while, at least until 'things went back to normal'.

They didn't dare refuse her. They were more scared of her fragile, broken self than they ever had been of the strong, manipulative Lois.

Malcolm went in, walking slowly and uncertainly, with his free hand outstretched. The bandage was still covering his eyes.

Seeing him helpless like that was more than Dewey and Reese could bare. They both looked away from him.

Little had changed since they last saw this place. The same ugly tapestry was still covering the walls of the kitchen, the same furniture was still standing there, covered by a thin layer of dust; even the same pictures were still hanging on the wall. It felt as if they had left this house yesterday.

"Dewey, help your brother into the bedroom," Lois said, a remnant of her previous self sneaking into her voice.

"I don't need your help, buttwad," Malcolm snapped. Dewey let go of him, desperately wanting to believe him.

Malcolm headed slowly to the bedroom, using the cane they had given him at the hospital to feel his way.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

"Hey, Malcolm?"

"What is it?"

"I was just wondering if you needed something."

Malcolm rolled over in his bed, turning his back to the door. It had been hours since they moved in, and he had stayed here the whole time. Dewey supposed this was normal, given what his brother had been put through, but still having Malcolm alone in the room like that unnerved him a little. Perhaps it was the thought of him being isolated in here and surrounded only by darkness.

"I don't. You don't have to treat me like a cripple, you know."

"I'm sorry," Dewey said, not even sure what he was apologizing for.

He knew Malcolm didn't want him to be here, but he stayed at the door nevertheless.

"Don't you want to talk?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"If there's something we need to say to each other, then I'll talk."

Dewey opened his mouth, closed it, then said, "Fine," in a bitter voice and left, shutting the door behind him.

_He's such and idiot, _he thought. _Why is he acting like this?_

He leaned against the door, slowly sinking to the floor. He rested his head on his hands and closed his eyes.

This was the position Reese found him in fifteen minutes later.

"Hey, what are you doing here?"

Dewey felt it was his duty to retort with a sarcastic comment, even though he didn't really feel like it.

"I'm warming the floor, what does it look like I'm doing?"

"Okay, okay, just asking. You don't have to get all defensive on me."

Dewey sighed. "I'm sorry."

Reese was silent for some time, which Dewey hoped indicated that the apology had been accepted. Then his brother kneeled beside him. Dewey thought this was an invitation to go on, so he did.

"It's just... Malcolm. He's acting so stupid and stubborn and cold. I mean, I know it's difficult for him, but why does he have to make it so hard for us, too?"

Reese nodded. "Yeah, I know. He's an idiot sometimes."

And that was all he had to say about it. Dewey didn't know why, but somehow this made him feel a little better.

"Yeah, he is," he agreed.

And then, out of the blue, Reese sat down next to him and put his arm around Dewey's shoulder. Dewey was so surprised that, for an instant, he froze.

"He is," Reese repeated, pulling his brother closer to him.

They both desperately needed something that would solve their problems—them having to deal with Malcolm's condition, them growing colder and more distant towards each other, them forgetting what family was really all about.

And although a simple hug was far from accomplishing all that, it was still a beginning.


	3. Chapter 3: The Beginning

If you saw a book that captured your interest, where would you open it first? Would you start reading from the beginning, from the middle, or possibly from the very end? Would you skip the fist pages, because nothing is really happening, or savour every moment until it finally ends?

If you could see a person's life unfold before you, where would you start from? The birth, the teenage years, or the very final moments?

And just how many beginnings can a life have?

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Malcolm was the kind of person to start from the middle.

He thought nothing interesting could happen in the beginning; it was too bothersome to get to know the characters by reading tons of pages of descriptions and flashbacks. He could pick up enough about them as he read on anyway—he was a genius, after all.

He would treat life the same way.

Perhaps that was why he rushed everything, not just reading books. Every relationship of his somehow got past its initial stages quite quickly; he was always in a hurry to get to the good stuff, and he couldn't be bothered to start something properly from the beginning, with patience. Most of the times he hadn't even gotten to know the people in his life.

And maybe that was why he didn't really know his family.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

They had taken him to look at pets.

Well, not look at them, strictly speaking. He felt them and ran his fingers through their hair, and listened to the excited, nervous or happy noises they made, and smelled the many smells they produced.

And it was still a stupid idea.

Why the hell would they think he needed a pet? Because they thought he felt lonely? Because it would help him cope with his... condition? Well, it was stupid of them to think so. Pets were a nuisance: they required too much care and cleaning up after them and their only redeeming quality was that they were cute. A quality he wasn't able to appreciate any more.

He really missed it—being able to see, that is. He kept thinking about what certain things would look like, desperately trying to replace his eyes with his imagination; hearing and feeling them was not enough to fill this void of emptiness that surrounded him.

A very important connection between him and the rest of the world had been severed, and with every day that passed he could feel it more and more clearly; and it hurt. It hurt not being able to see their house, his brothers, the clouds, the sunshine—all of which he hadn't really appreciated until now, when they existed no more. And now it was too late.

It was too late for many things, he knew. This he could feel more clearly than anything else in his previous life.

And it hurt, too.

Suddenly he heard his mother's voice.

"Huh?"

"I said, did you choose an animal?"

Malcolm sighed. "No, and I don't see any point in doing so."

He felt annoyed with his family. Recently all they had been doing was dragging Malcolm all over town, coming up with 'fun' activities for him to do, in a stupid and meaningless attempt to distract him. And that was the last thing he needed.

Up until now he hadn't really complained, but he thought his attitude would've made it abundantly clear that he didn't want anything to do with this. Apparently, it hadn't. Or it _had_, but they were too scared of what could happen if they stopped trying to be a part of his life again; they were afraid of doing nothing, of being nothing to him.

Either way, they didn't quit.

He knew he was supposed to feel at least a little bit appreciative of what they were trying to do for him. But he couldn't. He couldn't make himself feel even the slightest gratitude, no matter how hard he tried.

His heart had become as empty as the world around him.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

The monotonous sound of the car engine was the only thing Malcolm could hear for a while; but soon it was gone, too, slowly melting into the background of other faint noises that made up the silence around him. After some time, all of his senses had become numb and he had stopped hearing at all, lost in thought.

Again, it was his mother who spoke first.

"So what do you want to do tomorrow, Malcolm?"

He didn't answer.

"Malcolm?"

"Nothing," he said. He felt like he was going mad, irritated to no end by her feeble attempts to keep him amused and entertained. Was she doing this to torture all of them, or just him?

"Oh, come on, there must be something."

She knew. By her voice he could tell that she knew what he felt.

He couldn't go on like this any more.

"Why are you doing this?"

He felt Dewey shift uncomfortably beside him and Reese tense up at such an open provocation.

"What, honey?"

Ah, so she's going to pretend she doesn't know what I'm talking about. That's pathetic.

"Don't act so clueless. You know."

Lois sighed. "Why are you making it so hard, Malcolm? We're just trying to take your mind off of—"

"I'm not the one making it hard," he snapped, raising his voice. "You are, with your incessant talking and your insistence to keep me busy. I don't need this. I need to be left alone."

There, he had said it. He didn't care if it hurt his mother, this was what he wanted and needed. So Dewey wanted to talk? Well, he was talking.

"Honey, I understand you're upset, but—"

If she thought playing that card and attempting reconciliation would work, she was mistaken. This was even more pathetic.

"I don't need your pity."

He couldn't see her reaction, but he knew it was one of shock and surprise. He knew those words had cut deep.

None of them said another word.

The rest of the car ride was silence, made up of many small and monotonous noises that only made it even deeper.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

As soon as they stopped in their driveway, Malcolm jumped out of the car, extended his cane and announced he was going for a walk.

"Alone? At least let Dewey or Reese come with you."

"No," he said, slowly walking away from them. "Alone."

And so here he was, half an hour later, sitting on a bench in the park. His bandages were gone, replaced by dark glasses: he felt he had to have something covering his eyes, otherwise he would look just like an ordinary person.

Something he knew he wasn't, and he would never be.

He could hear so many things now; things he hadn't even known made a sound. He could hear the shuffling of jackets in the cold autumn day, the wind rustling through the grass, the leaves falling to the ground. It was all so loud, and he hadn't suspected the world was so full of sounds, but they were all meaningless to him.

They were sounds that didn't tell him anything. They couldn't tell him how brown the leaves were, how gracefully they danced with the wind, or how blue the sky was and how majestically the clouds soared in it. They couldn't tell him how beautiful the sunset might have been.

They were hollow, and empty, and they only drew a picture of a world he couldn't see.

But then slowly, in the chaos of sounds, he began to hear uncertain footsteps coming closer to him. As he wondered if it wasn't one of his brothers, sent by their mother to look after him, he sensed someone sitting on the bench beside him.

"Hi," he heard a boy's voice. "Do you mind?"

Malcolm shrugged his shoulders.

"It's just that this is the bench I usually sit on," the boy continued.

Malcolm didn't dignify this with a response. He hoped the guy would understand the hint and stop talking.

"I hope you don't misunderstand me, I usually don't mind company. In fact, I like to have someone to talk to."

Malcolm sighed. Oh, great.

There was a moment of silence, which his invisible companion obviously hated, because he spoke again.

"The weather today sure is nice, huh?"

Okay, this has to stop.

"Look man, I told you you could sit here, not talk," Malcolm snapped.

There was another pause, but it wasn't too long either.

"You aren't very talkative, are you?"

And the award for the stupidest observation of the day goes to... whoever the hell he is.

"Oh, really?" What was your first clue?"

"Well, you passed up on three wonderful conversation starters." His laughter was just as unpleasant as his talking. "That's a dead giveaway."

"I have no intention of talking to the likes of you."

Malcolm hadn't meant to sound so snappish, but if the guy was hurt, all the better—he would go away and leave him alone.

No such luck.

"Boy, you're very grumpy, aren't you?"

Malcolm's voice was dripping with sarcasm. "Wow, you really have me figured out, don't you?"

But the man seemed impenetrable to irony. Either that, or he didn't care.

"Well, it's amazing how much you can learn about someone only by talking to him for a while."

Malcolm didn't like the sound of that. He felt as if he was being accused of something, but he didn't know exactly what.

"I hope that's all the talking we're going to do," he mumbled. He wanted to get up and walk away, but there was something holding him back; perhaps it was just curiosity towards this odd person who talked too much, or perhaps he liked him a little, too, despite being so annoyed with him. That boy didn't seem to care what others thought of him, a quality that Malcolm had never possessed and had always admired in others.

"You never know," the invisible boy laughed again. "I'm Matthew, by the way. Nice to meet you."

Malcolm remained silent.

"Uh... that's usually the part where you say your name," Matthew added.

"Yeah, I know. I'm just not sure that if I tell you my name, you won't remember it and stalk me for the rest of my life."

"Ha-ha."

So there _were _things he didn't find funny.

"Well, there's always the risk."

"Anyway, the name's Malcolm."

"Nice to meet you," Matthew repeated and a hand was shoved in Malcolm's face. He shook it, a little uncertainly. "So... how come you're here by yourself in this fine evening?"

"Long story," Malcolm said. "But I can ask the same thing about you."

"Ah well... I don't have much going on in my life and I have a lot of time on my hands."

"Same here." Malcolm didn't know if he had figured out what the cane and the glasses were about; he might be driving intentionally at it.

"How so?"

And he probably was.

"I don't really want to talk about it."

"Ah," was Matthew's response.

Malcolm didn't know how he did it, but somehow that guy managed to create a silence that practically begged to be filled with talking. He let his last words hang in the air for a while, and then he gave in.

"I had a row with my family," he said, and stopped.

Matthew still didn't say anything.

"And it was pretty bad."

The silence invited him to go on.

"And now they're mad at me, and I'm mad at them," he concluded, feeling a bit stupid. After all, he was telling all this to a person he'd met five minutes ago.

"What were you fighting about?"

Ah, what the heck. Just go with it.

"Well, they're trying to do something for me that I don't want them to do, and they're only making things harder because they treat me as if I'm helpless, and it's frustrating and I hate it." He was sure all of this made little sense to the other man, but he still needed to get it out.

"I see."

"I doubt it," Malcolm said.

There was another pause, unbearably charged with expectations.

"Why would they treat you like that?" Matthew asked after a while.

How did he do it? How did he manage to ask the questions Malcolm was the least willing to answer?

"Well, I... I had... I was in an accident. A pretty bad one."

He knew that by now Matthew must have figured out what the cane and the glasses were about, but he still didn't say anything. God, he was thick.

"Look, I'm blind now, okay?" Malcolm snapped, almost shouting. "I'm blind, and they think I need help, and I really don't, and they're trying to do all those things for me that I don't really need, and it's not really helping, and today I told them that and they were really hurt and I know that I'm an awful person and—" he choked, a weird breath stuttering in his throat; the silence rang after these words, filled with awkwardness. There was a knot in Malcolm's stomach, as if he was waiting for a verdict—he had revealed too much of himself, and he was sure that when that happened, people despised him for what they saw.

And he still couldn't shake the feeling that it was stupid to say all that to a complete stranger.

Matthew breathed in and Malcolm tensed up. He wanted to cover his mouth, stop the words he knew were coming—

"I'm sorry."

Well, he hadn't exactly expected that.

"Um... okay," Malcolm said, and immediately cursed himself. It was the stupidest reply in the world.

"I mean, I do know what that's like."

"You? What do you know about this?"

Correction—this was the stupidest reply in the world.

"A lot of things," Matthew said. Malcolm sensed him reaching over and taking something in his hand. Then the boy stood up and Malcolm heard the clatter of plastic against asphalt.

And it suddenly dawned on him.

Matthew had a cane, too.

"Anyway, I gotta go now. But there's one thing I'd like you to know as well," the boy said. "I'm drawing from my personal experience, so I hope you listen to me."

There was a sudden gust of wind. A few leaves landed in Malcolm's lap, but he didn't brush them away.

He was waiting for Matthew's words, despising them and craving them at the same time.

"Sometimes we need all those people around us, saying all those wrong words, making all those wrong things that make us mad. And you want to know why? That's the only way we know there's someone who cares."

And then he was gone, leaving Malcolm alone with the dancing leaves and the soaring clouds and the sunset.

That beautiful, beautiful sunset.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

The door of the pet store opened and a man with dark glasses came in. The owner recognized the boy he'd seen earlier with his family.

"How can I help you?"

"Well... what animal would you recommend to someone who doesn't have a lot of experience with taking care of pets?"

"Hmm... you could take a hamster. It doesn't require that much attention and it's very easy to take care of."

"No," Malcolm shook his head. "I don't want anything in a cage."

"Well, in that case... You could take a puppy."

After a moment of thought, Malcolm's face brightened.

"Okay, I'll take one."

Dewey had always wanted a puppy. And he had never given his brother any presents.

Perhaps it was high time he started from the beginning.


	4. Chapter 4: Of the End

But the beginning was the trickiest part of all.

Malcolm had yet to learn that as he strode onward, his enthusiasm slowly cooling off; doubt was slowly creeping into his mind. Perhaps a puppy wasn't such a good idea, perhaps Dewey wouldn't like it. What if he no longer wanted a dog? What if the gesture he was about to make was interpreted the wrong way?

Oh, well, he was about to find out, wasn't he?

But, despite all, he was still hoping that everything would be okay. And that was why his brother's response stirred in him once more disappointment and bitterness.

"I thought you said pets were a nuisance."

Malcolm imagined how the younger Dewey would've reacted: the screams and the 'aww'-s and, all in all, too much noise—but at least he would've shown he was happy. Now in his brother's voice he could detect mild surprise, mixed with confusion... and nothing else.

No other emotion at all.

He sighed. The whole thing seemed to him stupid and childish now. But he went on with what he had planned, still hoping that something would happen.

"I did, and it's not really for me. It's for you."

"Oh," Dewey said and Malcolm wanted to punch him. What the hell did 'oh' mean? Couldn't he have said something other than this? And where were the 'wow'-s and 'thank-you-so-much'-s?

He realised what he had just thought and laughed out loud. He was so stupid, and naïve, and anyway, he really should've seen this coming, it's not like he didn't know his family: they weren't exactly the emotional type.

"What're you laughing about?"

Really, what was he laughing about? Because he was disappointed? Because he was hurt? Was this some sort of reflex to hide himself from the world and everybody else? Why couldn't he shout at them, scream at them, make them understand how he felt? _Why was he only smiling?_

He could still feel that stupid and meek expression on his face, and he hated it. He didn't want to be smiling, he wanted to shout and trash and punch and hit and destroy everything in his sight; but he couldn't. Smiling was an automatic reaction for him, a reaction that made life easier; and without its protection, he was bare and open for the entire world to see.

"Oh, nothing. I was just hoping you'd be a bit more enthusiastic."

Maintaining a calm exterior was excruciatingly painful to him, and yet he couldn't remove the mask, couldn't do what he really wanted, _needed _to do. And that was the worst part of it.

There was silence for a while and Malcolm desperately needed it to be broken; otherwise he didn't know what he would do. And just as he was about to open his mouth, his brother spoke again.

"Well, it was... it was nice of you."

"Thank you," he said, although he wasn't sure what he was thanking him for. He immediately regretted his choice of words, because for him it was an empty phrase that didn't mean anything and it was certainly not going to make things right; it was just something to prolong the conversation, and the awkwardness.

His brother didn't say anything, which was probably a wise thing to do.

"Um...," he started, rather uncertainly, "could you take it off my hands now? They're kind of sore."

This was followed by another agonising smile.

"Yeah, sure, just a moment."

Once he felt the soft, warm and overexcited furry ball leaving his arms, he mumbled an incoherent apology about having something he had to do, and went to his bedroom. Dewey didn't follow him, for which he was grateful.

Once he knew he was out of everybody's sight, the stupid smile left his face and he slumped into his bed, as if keeping up that act had been exhausting.

And, in many ways, it had.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

"You know, I've learned something about you."

He was back at the park, sitting on the same bench the stupid idea had come to him in the first place. And Matthew was sitting beside him, because, somehow, they had stumbled on each other again, and once more they had started talking.

And Malcolm knew, although he'd never admit it, that this was partly the reason why he'd come here. Yeah, Matthew was annoying, and he couldn't possibly give him any real advice, but there was something about him that Malcolm liked; it was probably the same thing that made him so irritating.

But then, he was a real nuisance sometimes.

"What?" He could barely refrain himself from replying with a sarcastic comeback.

"You enjoy talking to others. You just don't know how to."

Now that was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard.

And it probably was true.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you obviously like talking to me," Matthew said. "And I'm a total stranger you just happened to run into in the park, and yet you've told me things about yourself that I doubt even your family knows; and you can't really tell them that because you've known each other for so long, and you don't know how they'll react when they find out that they hardly know you."

Perhaps it was because those words were true that Malcolm despised them so much.

"What do you know about my family?" he snapped. After all, what right did he have to pry in his private life?

_Only the right you yourself gave him._

"Of course, you're right," Matthew conceded, and Malcolm knew it wasn't because the boy didn't think he was right; it was because he didn't want to confront him openly. "But, judging by you, your family's not very open or communicative."

Malcolm didn't like where the conversation was going and he didn't like that this boy had got so many things right. Was he that transparent?

"Look, can we change the subject? I don't really want to discuss my relatives right now."

Matthew didn't say anything for a while. But the silence that settled between them wasn't so much awkward as it was calm and comfortable. It was another one of Matthew's abilities: he made even the silence a way of enjoying each other's presence.

At last he spoke again.

"Anyway, Malcolm, I gotta go. See you around?"

"Yeah." After a moment of thought, Malcolm added, "Crap."

There was a pause.

"Uh... what?"

"You remembered my name."

Even though the joke was really a bit stupid, it still made them laugh. They needed to laugh.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-

_I thought you said pets were a nuisance. _

This sentence had already become a sort of a mantra to Malcolm as he repeated it again and again in his mind, sitting on a chair at the kitchen table.

A mantra of disappointment, of hurt feelings, of being unable to reach closure. He kept telling himself that he couldn't expect every problem in his life to be solved just with a simple gift—it was too insignificant a gesture in order for it to really matter, and his problems were too many. He couldn't make up for years of neglecting his relationship with his family just with a simple apology, and he couldn't expect them to be anything other than surprised and confused; after all, he had been a jerk to them his entire life.

Somehow pointing that out to himself didn't make him feel any better.

And besides, they could've at least tried, they could've shown that they were ready to accept the change he was offering and attempt reconciliation. But they didn't, and that was the worst of all: now he had no idea what to do next. He felt lost and helpless; making amends was something that he had never had to do. In all his life, he had never told an apology and actually meant it—it was always something the others did, not him. He'd never had to face that great challenge and accept it.

Or he had, but he'd always run away.

But now, he didn't have any other choice.

And what made him the most miserable of all was the fact that he wasn't doing this for his family; he was doing this for himself. And not out of compassion, but because he wanted to ease his own conscience. His only motivation was fear: fear that he'd have to spend the rest of his life like this, forever angry at everyone, never having any close people to confide in. It was only fear of the darkness and the emptiness that drove him forward and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't make it go away.

Talking to people was the only thing that made life easier; yes, he realised that, although he avoided that realisation as much as he could. But he didn't know how to open up and talk, as Matthew had put it. This was the greatest challenge to him, because he was afraid of revealing too much of himself. He was afraid of the people around him, afraid of what they would say, what they would think of him, because that was the most important thing: how others perceived him. That was the way he perceived himself.

And then, when the chaos was taking over his head. there came the voice which spoke to him as it had a million times before.

_There's an easier way out of this._

And that was the part of _him_ he was scared of; the part he tried to suppress every time it showed itself.

Yet another thing in his life which he hadn't gotten to know.

But today something had to change; so he welcomed that part, as if it was a friend he hadn't talked to in a long time. He was almost relieved.

_Why are you here? _he asked.

_Because I am you. I am what you were, what you are and what you could've been. I am _Malcolm.

_Malcolm. _The person with unlimited options, the person who could be anyone and anything.

But who, instead, had settled for him.

_I am what you're afraid of and what you crave. I am what you want and can't do. And I can help you. _

_Help_. Help was what he wanted and hated, what he craved for and couldn't receive.

_I can show you the easy way out. _

But was there really such a thing? Was it even possible for such a thing to exist? This was another test, Malcolm knew, and he was tired of it. Why did he always have to learn things the hard way?

Lost in thought, he hadn't realised when he had started playing with a kitchen knife that had been carelessly left on the table. When he finally caught himself doing so, he froze for an instant, his mind's defences crumbling against the downpour of thoughts that overwhelmed him in just a second. He could almost feel the pressure of those thoughts against his skull, and he almost fell off his chair at the horrible power they had.

For a moment he felt it all—fear, hope, despair, panic and determination at the same time, rushing in and destroying what was left of his common sense.

He was scared to admit even to himself that, if only for a moment, he had considered _that_.

He hoped, he desperately hoped it would never come to this, no matter how bad things got.

He panicked, because he really oughtn't be thinking those thoughts.

He was desperate, because he had finally seen this was the only way out.

And he was determined never to let it happen.

He slowly opened his fingers and the knife started sliding away from his hands. But it was all happening painfully slowly—the temptation to hold on, to go through with what he had just considered, was too big. A wave of weakness washed over him, and his twitching fingers froze; he wouldn't have been able to grasp the falling knife, no matter how hard he might've tried.

He let it fall.

There was a clatter as the steel met the floor. Malcolm sighed; he felt relieved, as if he'd just got rid of something terribly heavy. He let all of his thoughts slip away too, all of his emotions, all his worries—his mind went blank.

And then there came the voice.

The voice of his brother Reese.

"What were you doing with that knife?"

Crap.

"How long have you been standing there?" Malcolm asked; fear once again gripped him.

Reese didn't answer. Instead, he repeated, "What the hell did you think you were doing?"

His voice was even and flat, but it was like the calm before the storm.

"W-what do you mean?" How the hell had he not heard him walk in? It was true he had been quite absorbed in thought, but he still should've heard him. Reese couldn't sneak up on people—that had been the only thing that had thwarted many of his practical jokes in the past.

But this was no joke.

"Answer me!" Reese shouted and Malcolm flinched at the anger and accusation in his brother's voice.

He was so surprised at Reese's outburst that he couldn't say anything for a while. When he finally found his voice, he started in a feeble attempt to placate, "I know how this must've looked to you, but—"

"But what?" his brother cut him off and Malcolm heard him walk to the kitchen table and pick the knife up. Reese was so close to him now that he could hear his panting and feel his breath on his face. "BUT WHAT?" he shouted again in Malcolm's face.

Malcolm couldn't say a word. He kept opening and closing his mouth, dumbfounded by Reese's sudden and unexpected rage.

"I know what you wanted to do!" his brother slapped his hands on the table and Malcolm flinched again. "I saw you! What the hell were you thinking?"

For a moment there was silence. Malcolm desperately wanted to cut in, to say something, to convince Reese that it wasn't what it looked like; but he couldn't bring himself to speak.

"What did you hope for? That it would be a solution to all your problems? Huh?"

All Malcolm could do was shake his head.

"WHAT THE HELL WERE YOU THINKING?"

There was a crash; Malcolm supposed his brother had thrown a vase or something to the ground. Reese was still breathing heavily, as of he'd been running.

"Do you even think about others? Do you even think how this would affect _us?_"

Malcolm's face was pale and his hands were shaking; but his voice was still dead.

"DO YOU? EH? ANSWER ME!"

And his brain was dead, too: all that existed in his world was his brother's mindless rage. Like a deer in the headlights he was rooted to the spot, unable to move out of the way or do anything to prevent the hit he knew was going to come.

And his brother seemed angry enough to hit him.

But then something seemed to snap inside of Reese; he turned away from Malcolm and spoke again.

"Why—How could it have crossed your mind—Don't you know that we—"

At this point his voice faltered, suffocated by something Malcolm thought he'd never witness Reese doing—he was crying.

Somehow that scared Malcolm even more than the shouting.

He sat, still frozen, on the chair, but he knew that he had to do something now or risk losing Reese forever. So he tentatively extended his hand and patted him on the shoulder. He could feel his brother's body shaking with the sobs.

"Why are you such an idiot?" Reese managed to say at last, but Malcolm couldn't feel anger in his voice any more; it had vanished as quickly as it had appeared, destroying everything in its wake and leaving only the quiet sobs.

Reese slumped into a chair beside Malcolm and rested his elbows on the table. Malcolm, still feeling awkward and uncomfortable, hesitated. Shouldn't he try to console him?

And then he did something which he thought he'd never do, and yet which came so naturally and spontaneously to him—he gave his brother a hug.

Reese didn't pull away, and Malcolm hoped this was a good sign.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly, finding his voice at last. "I'm sorry." He didn't know why he was apologising, but it seemed like the right thing to do.

"I'm sorry," he repeated for the third time, pulling Reese closer.

After a while, Reese's shaking subsided and there was silence. But neither of them let go, at least not yet.

And deep down, Malcolm knew that in his memories, he'd always come back to that moment—to the moment he had hugged his brother for the fist time.


	5. Chapter 5: And the End

She saw him as he was walking down the street; it was the same street down which they would often go for a walk together all those years ago. At first she was excited and a bit nervous; after all, she hadn't seen Malcolm in more than ten years, and she couldn't imagine what she should say. Then she was confused as she watched him tread slowly and uncertainly, with his eyes covered by sunglasses even though it was almost night. And then she saw the cane and it dawned on her.

She should've felt shock and fear; she should've been terrified, rejecting the obvious truth as if denial would in any way help her cope with this better. But as she followed him with her gaze it was only sadness she felt, and a kind of resignation. Somehow she had always known his life wouldn't be easy at all; and in an absolute, and maybe a bit heartless and cold way, it all made sense.

She was surprised at her own thoughts, but pushed them aside as she stood there, rooted to the spot, wondering if she should go up to him and say hi, or just ignore him. What was she so nervous about, anyway? Because he was blind and she didn't know how to approach him, as if this wasn't the Malcolm she knew any more? Maybe. Because of what happened the last time they saw each other? Yes, that was possible, too. She knew this shouldn't really matter, but she still couldn't help but feel awkward after what they had said to each other that day. And she knew it was all partly her fault, but this didn't make it any easier to deal with.

And then her legs seemed to move by themselves, ignoring the commands of her brain, and she was walking up to him.

"Hey, Malcolm!"

He stopped, and turned around; it was more of a habit than necessity, since he could hear just fine with his back to somebody. She felt a sharp pain in her chest as she saw him up close, so helpless and torn away from the world around him.

"Who is it?"

She stopped dead in her tracks; her face went pale and she took a sharp breath. But after a moment she regained her composure and forced a smile on her face.

"Don't you remember me?"

She sounded almost relieved; it was really better that way.

"Umm... no offence, but I can't really recognise anyone right now." He laughed, and she saw how much effort it cost him.

_Well, yeah, my voice has changed much since I was a kid. _

"Oh, right, I-I'm—I'm sorry. Really, how stupid can I be." She wanted to slap herself. This wasn't right at all, she should've never opened her mouth; but it was already too late. There was no turning back now. "Well, I'm—"

Were names really necessary? She didn't know how he would react if he heard hers, but she didn't have the guts to find out. And anyway he wouldn't be overjoyed if he did; not after they way they had left things back then.

She knew he was waiting to hear a name, and she knew that what she was going to say next was going to sound really stupid, but it was the first thing she could think of. And it wasn't exactly a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either.

"I was in your science class for a while, and we were even lab partners for some time."

She could see Malcolm was at a loss. "Um.. this is really not helping, I mean I used to be lab partners with many girls and—"

"That's okay," she cut him off. "My name's not really important."

"...Okay, I guess. But why don't you want to tell me who you are?"

She hesitated, but she knew she was not going to come up with something that was convincing enough. "Because I don't think you remember me anyway, and it doesn't really matter." She could see he was about to ask something else, so she quickly interjected, "So... what have you been up to?"

She regretted her question immediately, because she saw the effect it had on him: his shoulders slumped and he turned his face away from her.

"I'm really sorry," she hurried to say, "I didn't mean to—"

"No, that's okay," he said. "I've been—I'm fine, thanks. What about you?"

"Well, I'm... fine, too."

The word 'fine' seemed to have too many meanings, she thought. _Obviously here it's something more like 'awful'._

She could tell he was trying hard to remember something. Then, after a moment of awkward silence, he said at last, "But seriously, why won't you tell me your name?"

"I... I don't think it would help."

"Help?" He outstretched his hands in a gesture of confusion. "Help who? What do you mean?"

"Help you, me, everyone. We didn't really... We weren't on very good terms the last time we saw each other."

His forehead wrinkled as he racked his brains.

"Are you Vicky?"

"Um... no." Now she was at a loss. Who was Vicky? "Look, it doesn't really matter. Could you please just let it go? The only thing that matters is that... I'm sorry."

_Oh. so you tell him you're sorry without actually having the guts to say what you're sorry for. That's really brave of you. _

"Sorry? Sorry for what?"

"Sorry for," she took a deep breath. "Sorry for how I treated you, and for how you treated me, and what happened to you." She could see this didn't make it any clearer to him, so she added, "I didn't really mean it to happen. I didn't mean all those things I said. It was just... the heat of the moment, you know? It was awful that we ended up fighting, and I've wanted to apologise for a long time. It's the one thing in my life I regret doing and the one thing I wish I could take back. So I'm sorry."

That day she had told him he was the only reason she didn't really want to move. He had told her he'd been wondering all this time what would've happened if it had worked out between them, and she said she didn't know, but it was too late to find out now, anyway; and she knew those words had hurt him, and all the shame and regret exploded into a terrible fight with the only person she had been hoping not to fall out with. And still she couldn't let it go.

Had he already figured out who she was? Would that be enough for him to remember her?

Clearly not. Clearly, she wasn't the only girl he'd fought with.

"I still don't know what you're talking about.

"Well, it was because you said you'd always wondered what it would've been like if we had gotten together."

He froze. She knew this had rung a bell.

"And I'm sorry, but it's still too late. All I can do is this."

She moved closer to him.

"Whenever you think of me, I don't want you to think of the fight and the things I said back then. I want you to think of what I tell you now: you're a good guy, Malcolm, you're smart and gentle and thoughtful, and you should let anyone... or anything take that away from you."

She leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on his cheek.

"Remember," she whispered and turned to walk away.

"Wait!" he called after her. "_Who _are you?"

But he knew. She could tell he already knew.

And yet she told him, just to be sure.

Malcolm stood like this, unmoving, for a while, his cheek still burning from the sudden and unexpected kiss, her name still ringing in his ears; but his mind was strangely blank and calm, as if it had been silenced by her final gesture of warmth in this cold autumn day.

And as she walked away from her first childhood love, Cynthia felt only a slight twinge of regret.


	6. Chapter 6: Of the Beginning

Epilogue 1

They were sitting around the kitchen table doing nothing in particular. He knew this, even though he couldn't see; that was all they did recently.

"We need to talk." He didn't know how he'd plucked up the courage to say those words; all he knew was that it had to be done.

Dewey and Reese didn't say anything for a moment. He could hear them both taking a deep breath.

"What about?" Dewey asked.

"About everything."

This was met by confused silence. Malcolm felt he had to add something else.

"Something happened to us. We drifted apart, and now I feel like I don't know any of you any more."

"Um... we've been living together for fifteen years. I think we know each other pretty well," Dewey said in a tone that suggested he had lifted his eyebrow.

"Yeah, but how much of the time did we spend talking about things?"

"About what?"

"Everything. Anything. Whatever was on our mind, what we felt, what we thought..."

Now the silence wasn't as confused as they wanted it to be. Neither of them said anything and he knew they'd rather pretend they didn't know what he was talking about; it was always easier that way. And if they didn't go easy, their small comfortable worlds they had built around themselves might shatter, and he knew they didn't want that. Everybody is afraid of change, no matter what they say.

But he also knew that sometimes it was inevitable.

"And I think I have to start first. With an apology."

Well, here goes.

The funny thing was that those words were not so hard to say any more. Sometimes, he thought, making things seem easy was the only way to deal with them.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I acted like such a jackass."

For a terribly long moment, nobody said anything, and Malcolm was already starting to panic. What if they didn't take it seriously? What if they dismissed it as a joke?

And what if they didn't?

Then, still without talking, his brothers stood up.

And before he could say anything, he almost choked from the combined force of their hug.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Epilogue 2

The bench felt cold under Malcolm's body.

But he could feel the warmth of Reese next to him, and the warmth of the last rays of the sun.

These past few weeks he had learned a lot about himself and his family, more than he had in his entire life. Now he knew what having a caring and gentle mother was like; what an open and affectionate Reese and Dewey felt like; and what really being part of something meant.

"So... um... this is nice," he heard his brother say.

"Yeah," he agreed.

And that was it. That was all they needed to tell each other all the things they couldn't put into words. After all, their family had never been good with words; some things never change.

A sudden gust of cold wind made Malcolm shiver.

"Are you cold?" Reese asked.

"Yeah, a little."

"Come on then, we should get you home."

With his brother's support, he stood up slowly. He breathed in the fresh breeze for one last time before turning to the setting sun.

He didn't need to see it to know it was beautiful.

And then Reese lead him on, holding him firmly by the hand.

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

Not Really An Epilogue

Malcolm's life had started with a beginning older than time itself: birth.

And, twenty-six years later, he was finally born to the world around him.

The essence of his life wasn't that he was a genius and he had built a successful career; it wasn't even that he had been in an accident that had changed his life entirely; it was that he was happy, and that he made his closest people happy, too. Of course, nothing is that simple—but that is what really matters.

All in all, an extraordinary person that had a very ordinary life; a life, whose story isn't really worth telling, because things like that happen all the time.

And it would've remained untold. If it hadn't been for his family.


End file.
